The Wrong Place
by Aurilia
Summary: Jim's dream was just the beginning. Mid-S1 AU. Rating for language.
1. Inevitability

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'The Walking Dead'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

 **A/N:** Everyone remember season one? Sorta? Kinda? Well, I was rewatching the whole series (love DVDs, don't you?) because I finally have a little time to do so (and managed to pick up season five, of which I had only managed to see the first two episodes) and something hit me out of nowhere that I'd never particularly noticed before. This is an AU that builds on that little detail that I somehow hadn't really attributed any importance to whatsoever.

The first act is pulled directly from S1E4 _Vatos_ , though I went ahead and added bits here and there since we don't really see what the characters are thinking.

Though I've filed this under the characters of Rick and Daryl, this first chapter is more of a prologue and we won't see them until the second chapter. Sorry if this confuses you.

* * *

 **The Wrong Place**

 _Chapter One: Inevitability_

It's hot. Hot and humid and so painfully sunny. There's something about it all that's at once strange and new yet older than old. Older than history. Something he can't quite put his finger on. He's not entirely sure he wants to.

But this? It's not hard. Physically, he knows he should be in pain. Too sticky and overheated to make any sense. But there's ice. Even in the heat of high summer, there's ice. And it's flowing in his veins. He can feel it make a complete circuit. Can feel the squeezing pain as it passes through his heart. As it sears his lungs.

Despite what the thermometer might say, he's half-expecting to see winter fog pour from his lips on every exhale.

His hands, he knows, are numb. Rough with thick skin even before all the weirdness. Bleeding now, he's sure. There's something slick making it hard to hold the shovel and he doubts it's sweat.

There's a rhythm, too. Not in time with anything else. Maybe the ice, but maybe not. _Scoop, scoop. Break apart the clusters of rocks. Fuck of a lot of rocks. Pickaxe? Maybe._ Half-formed thoughts dance at the edges of his perception.

They don't matter.

He ignores them or simply doesn't notice them. Either is likely.

Distantly, he's aware that he's probably losing his mind.

It doesn't matter.

Only the holes opening up before him matter, though the reason has long since fled.

He had a reason. _He had a reason_. But somewhere between dreaming and waking and hiking up here with the shovel, that reason was shed and left behind like so much dead skin at a crime scene.

Then there's a familiar voice saying, "Jim, you okay?" in that concerned way that makes everyone so fucking sure that the man saying it genuinely cares for these people he's never met before.

But the words don't matter.

The man saying them doesn't matter.

He has to finish this task. The holes need dug, even if he can't remember why. He doesn't speak. Again, the voice pings off his focus. "Keep this up, you're gonna keel over out here."

Might be true.

Probably _is_ true.

But the task needs done. He has to finish. He still doesn't know why. But there's the heat and the sun and the shovel and the ice. Always, the ice.

A flicker of blue – he knows, on some level, it's a canteen of water – skirts the edge of his vision. "Drink some water, at least," the voice implores. Worried. Worried about _him_.

He might have said, 'go away and leave me be', but he doubts it. The ice was passing by his voice at the time, so it might have just been a look. Does its job, though, however it was said.

Back to work.

Scoop. Break up the clusters of stone. Break apart tangled roots.

The holes need dug.

He's been at this for a while. Can feel it, distantly, turning his muscles into overused jelly that's going to stiffen up and _hurt_ for at least a week. Doesn't care. It isn't important.

"Hey, Jim?" Another voice this time. More insistent than the last. A bullying sort of voice. He knows it like he knew the one from earlier. "Jim, why don't you hold up, all right?" He doesn't want to. The holes need dug. "Just give me a second here, please?"

It could have been 'please' that did it. Such an unexpected word from that mouth. He'll let them think it was, even though it wasn't. It was the ice. The heat. The holes themselves. "What do you want?" he says, leaning a little on his friend. On the shovel. On his trusty tool to finish his task.

"We're all just a little concerned, man," the voice hiding behind concern but still a bully says. "That's all."

A different voice, more traditional concern, all wrapped up in a light veneer of scared then adds, "Dale says you've been out here for hours."

He wants to laugh. To scream. To cry. Hours? Maybe. Days? More likely. Years? Even closer to the truth. He's been out here since the beginning of everything and will remain out here long past its quiet, whimpering end. Just him and the heat. The ice. The holes. "So?" he says.

That pushy, bullying voice replies with a dusting of humor, "So why are you digging? You heading to China, Jim?"

Could be. Might be. But isn't. He knows without knowing why or how that isn't it. The holes are here. He brought them into being like a woman brings forth a baby. He owns these holes. They own him. They and the ice and the heat. He doesn't know why, but knows why _not_. And Shane is wrong. "What does it matter?" he asks. "I'm not hurting anyone."

More work. Always more work to be done. Can't they see that? How is digging holes anyone's business? Why's it such a big deal? It's _his_ task. His project. He may not remember why, but he does remember why _here_. It's out of the camp. Away from everyone. Up high, with a nice view, even through the heat-haze of high summer and the ice lurking just beneath.

That first voice is back, even more concerned than ever before. "Yeah," it says. "Except maybe yourself. It's a hundred degrees today. You can't keep this up."

And it is probably right, but these holes _own_ him, and he'll give them every last thing he's got. His breath, his blood.

The ice in his heart.

"Sure I can!" he says, unsure where this absolute certainty comes from. Maybe the holes are speaking through him. "Watch me!"

The rhythm starts again, though it doesn't go far.

"Jim, they're not gonna say it, so I will," she says. That woman who's been hovering around camp like a mosquito and only half as useful sounds scared. Not concerned or worried but flat-out scared. Like he's gonna just turn around and kill them all in their sleep. "You're scaring people," she says, "you're scaring my son and Carol's daughter."

He pauses, his breath short. Was it this hard to breathe before they trotted up here to bother him? He can't remember. "They got nothing to be scared of," he manages between harsh gasps of hot and stale air. "I mean, what the hell, people?" This is bullshit. Total bullshit. He might not remember why the holes are so important, but he knows he picked _here_ because it wasn't _there_. "I'm out here by myself. Why don't you all just go and leave me the hell alone?"

The holes need finishing, so he tries to recapture the aborted rhythm. "We think that you need to take a break, okay?" that bullying voice is closer than it was. "Why don't you go and get yourself in the shade. Some food, maybe. I'll tell you what, maybe in a little bit, I'll come out here and help you myself." It's crept even closer and he can see the man it belongs to is almost right on top of him. "Jim," the man says, "just tell me what it's about. Why don't you just go ahead and give me that shovel?"

That bullying voice hides well behind patronizing concern, but he can still hear it. "Or what?" he snaps. He's rapidly losing his patience – all this talk isn't getting those holes dug.

And the holes are important, even if he can't remember _why_.

The concern, patronizing or not, was a mask. He'd known that as soon as he'd heard it. But it's replaced with placating, and that's worse. "There is no 'or what'," the bullying voice says, though he's sure no one else can hear the bully hiding amid the words. "I'm asking you. I'm coming to you and I'm asking you, please. I don't want to have to take it from you."

His friend props him up, faithful to the last. "And if I don't," he says, "then what? Then you're gonna beat my face in like Ed Peletier, aren't you?" He can almost see his words slap that bully right across his smirking, hiding, patronizing face. "Y'all seen his face, huh?" he almost shouts, but can't quite find the volume. "What's _left_ of it." The slight increase in volume dissipates as he looks the bully square in his trust-me eyes. "See," he says, softer. "That's what happens when someone crosses you."

It's plain, unadorned truth. In his experience, that was the one thing that bullies couldn't handle. This case is no different as the self-appointed leader of their ragtag group of survivors and refugees replies coldly, "That was different, Jim."

That blonde girl, the younger sister of the loudmouth lawyer, adds her two cents by tossing out, "You weren't there. Ed was out of control. He was hurting his wife."

Even though he'd never held with hitting women, he had a greater aversion to butting his nose into other people's business. Besides, the holes needed dug, and all this talking wasn't getting the job done. "That is their marriage," he says. "That is not his. He is not judge and jury." The fury he feels for busybodies almost – _almost –_ manages to melt the ice. But not quite. "Who voted you king boss, huh?" he asks the bully.

He knows, even as he'd said it, that it was the worst thing he could've said. But, like the holes themselves, he couldn't stop. No one could stop what needed doing. What needs doing. What needs said.

That damn bully, hiding still behind his 'I was a cop' mask strides right up into his face, his hand out. "Jim, I'm not here to argue with you, all right?"

He wants to laugh in his face, but manages to restrain the urge. Maybe that ice was who he should thank for it. Maybe not. Maybe it was the holes. But maybe not.

His hand is out and reaching as he says, "Just give me the shovel, okay?"

Something in him snaps into panic-mode at the thought of handing over his shovel. His _friend_. He can't finish his task without the shovel! "No!" he says, trying to hold the tool out of that fucking bully's reach. He repeats it like a monk's prayer as the bully uses his height and bulk to try to get him to back down and cower like everyone else.

"Just give me the –"

He shoves him away. No conscious thought in the act, only the unerring certainty that if he loses his friend now, those holes won't be completed in time. In time for _what_ is an entirely different question. One whose answer is too tied up in _why_ for him to even _guess_ at what the answers might be. All he knows is that it must be done, and he's the only one who can do it.

The bully isn't deterred by the shove; is even more intent on seizing Jim's precious shovel. He isn't about to let that fucker take the shovel, though, and spins it around so the blade is no longer pointed at the dirt.

"Jim!" the bully cries as he takes a swipe at him with the shovel's blade.

Too bad he misses.

He blames the ice.

That fucking bully tackles him, wrenches the shovel out of his grasp, and has the fucking _audacity_ to shush him like an irritated infant!

"You got no right!" he shouts, repeating it as the ice circulates back through his voice, making subsequent repetitions in ever-decreasing volume. All the while Shane-Fucking-Walsh is shushing him. Pressing him into the ground. Securing his hands behind him.

He doesn't know why the holes. He knows why _here_. He knows he can't finish if they tie him up.

But it's inevitable.

He tries to stop them one more time, packing as much meaning as he can into a single word, "Don't!"

But they can't hear the meaning.

Maybe they have their own ice, and it's frozen their ears.

Or maybe they just plain don't give a shit.

Either is likely, but he's pretty sure it's the latter.

What that fucking bully is now murmuring at him finally sinks in as the ice steals the last of his fight. "Jim, nobody's gonna hurt you. You hear me? Nobody is gonna hurt you, okay?" It's punctuated with more infantile shushing.

He stops fighting. Somehow, he _must_ make them understand. The holes are necessary.

Even if he can't remember _why_.

"That's a lie," he says, or thinks he does. To make sure it actually made it out into the world past the ice, he repeats it. "That's the biggest lie there is. I told that to my wife and my two boys. I said it a hundred times. It didn't matter. They came out of nowhere. There were dozens of 'em. Just pulled 'em right out of my hands."

He gazes directly at that fucking mosquito woman. The one with the son who shines brighter than that fireball overhead. "You know," he says, conversationally. "The only reason I got away was 'cause the dead were too busy eating my family."

Before they drag him back down to the camp, he can see sympathy and pity on her face.

No understanding.

No comprehension.

It's important that she understands.

He can feel it in his bones.

It's not as important as the holes up on the hill. Not yet. But he knows it's going to become that important later.

She _needs_ to understand.

But words never were his strong suit.

They tie him to a tree. It's cooler in the shade and he knows that if he ever wants untied, if he wants the chance to finish his task, he's going to have to do what they want.

At least for now.

Until they go to bed, maybe.

Should be enough moonlight to finish the holes.

So, he sits quietly.

He doesn't think he needs to fake the dislocated gaze on his face – it's just a natural expression these days. A strong foundation of what-the-fuck, overlaid with God-help-us, and dusted with a sprinkling of this-can't-be-happening.

He isn't sure how long they leave him there. He does know they tied him up without so much as an offer on something to drink. How could the fucking assholes think he had heatstroke and _fail to offer him a goddamn cup of motherfucking water?_ He doesn't think it was intentional, but he does think it was a subtle form of payback for worrying that fucking mosquito-woman. The mouse with the asshat husband. They might've said he was scaring the _kids_ , but what sort of child gives a fuck what a grown-up is doing? Hell, the boy, at the very least, would have thought it fun to dig holes for the sake of digging holes! He _knows_ this – his own sons would have helped, no questions asked.

Eventually, after what feels like weeks-months-decades tied to the damn tree, the fucking King of the Goddamn Hill strolls up, a bucket in his hands and kneels a few feet from him. The old coot with the fucked-up RV and shitty hat is standing guard a half-dozen paces behind him, rifle balanced on his shoulder. Like, tied to the tree, he could really be a threat of any sort.

King Asshole asks, "Jim, take some water?"

Finally! A trace of _humanity_ from these dickwads! He never liked the elder Dixon brother, but there were times when his rants sometimes almost made sense.

Like when a self-appointed 'leader' decides to tie a 'heat-stroke victim' to a fucking _tree_ without even _offering_ water for what had to have been _hours_.

Especially when that 'victim' has better things to be tending.

He knows better than to let this show on his face, though. He _needs_ the water. Especially if he's going to finish up those holes later. He simply nods a little. "All right," he agrees.

The water isn't cold. But it still manages to add to the ice flowing through his veins. He asks if some can be poured on his head. A reasonable request, requested reasonably, especially for a 'heat-stroke victim'. The damn bully actually complies with the request.

"How long you gonna keep me like this?" he asks in what he hopes is a suitably down-trodden voice. As long as they think he's compliant, as long as they think he's _fine and fucking dandy_ , they're sure to let him go.

King of the Shitheap gives him this look, one that says, 'don't think I don't know what you're up to you fucking scumbag'. Out loud, though, his words are more child-friendly. "Well, yeah," he says. "Until I don't think you're a danger to yourself… or others."

He sighs inwardly. Bully or not, asshole or not, King of Shitville is _sharp_. He leans a little and speaks to Mosquito and Mouse, "Sorry if I scared your boy and your little girl." An apology is usually called-for in these types of situations, right? It couldn't hurt.

The mosquito looks a touch relieved. She says, "You had sunstroke. Nobody's blaming you," in a tone that tells him that she's trying to convince herself most of all.

Since the dead refused to lie down, what other sorts of fuckwittery will this world throw at them? He knows this is on her mind, and so doesn't begrudge her the lie.

Leveling his eyes on the little girl, he asks, "You're not scared now, are you?"

He can tell he was right – the girl hadn't been scared of him. She didn't know why he'd been digging those holes, but she didn't care. In either case, it wasn't something scare-worthy. It shows in her voice as she says, "No, sir."

He then shifts his attention to the boy. "Your mama's right. Sun just cooked my head is all."

He doesn't get the chance to see if he was as right about the boy as he'd been about the girl because Mr. Shitty RV pipes up with, "Jim, do you know why you were digging? Can you say?"

He wants to ask why it matters. He wants to shout at them that the holes just need dug. He wants to do neither and just march right back up there and finish what he started.

But none of those are an option.

"I had a reason," he says, then shrugs as much as his bonds will allow. "Don't remember." The old man nods at him in encouragement. Honestly, why the fuck do these people give a rat's ass about why he was digging holes? What fucking business is it of theirs? Why is digging a hole suddenly a jail-worthy offense? It wasn't like he was fucking someone else's wife, after all, or passing around a baggie of blue meth. He knows, though, that these idiots won't let him leave it at that. So he goes with the truth – or what he can remember of it. "Something I dreamt last night."

His eyes land again on the boy, and something about how he's watching everything makes a lightning flash scene from that dream spring forwards. Speaking directly to the boy, he says, "Your dad was in it. You were, too. You were worried about him. Can't remember the rest." And then, because he _must_ know, he asks, "You worried about your dad?"

The boy just states the obvious, "They're not back yet."

Even as the boy's mosquito-mother interrupts with, "We don't need to talk about that," more jump-cuts of that fucking dream burst forth. There's no order, no real sense to the images, but that doesn't matter.

He says what those images revealed, speaking directly to the boy. "Your dad's a police officer, son. He helps people. Probably just came across some folks needing help, that's all. That man, he is tough as nails. I don't know him well, but I could see it in him." He glances at King Shit of Fuckville for confirmation. "Am I right?"

The bully nods and says, "Oh, yeah," like the endorsement of that asshat is of any use to anyone.

Returning his eyes to the boy, he finishes up with, "There ain't nothing gonna stop him from getting back here to you and your mom, I promise you that."

As King Shit and the children, followed distantly by the mouse, trail off, the mosquito ambles over like she's about to give him the mother of all tongue-lashings. Now, he wouldn't normally be averse, not if it were the good sort with a hint of teeth, but he doesn't want anything that's touched King Fuck's dick anywhere near him – _who knows what you might catch?_ And besides, she's the boy's mother. Maybe she'll hear him. So he stops whatever she might have wanted to say by speaking first. "You keep your boy close," he says. "You don't ever let him out of your sight."

She leaves him, a disturbed look on her face.

He knows she heard him, but didn't understand.

How could he have explained? All those jump-cuts, those lightning flashes. Half of them were the fucking mosquito asking various other faces 'Where's Carl?' or 'Keep an eye on Carl for me' or 'has anybody seen my son?'

Some people should never have had children, and not because the _kids_ were fuckups.

What he'd told the boy was true, though. The boy's father would walk through hell itself – _will_ walk through hell itself – just for the slim hope of returning to his family.

He'd seen it.

He'd dreamt it.

The boy's father, covered in blood, unable to stand without swaying, and _still refusing to back down_.

The boy himself, a gun held awkwardly in his too-small grip, being told something to the effect that it was time to grow the fuck up already.

There were other flashes, but they were fading.

And none of them told him why the goddamn holes were so motherfucking vital.

He closes his eyes and tries to hammer his brain into showing him the answer to that particular question.

But the ice won't budge, and the memories remain locked and frozen away.

Eventually, King Bully Fuckwit the First of Shithole Peak strolls over like he gives a fuck. "Hey, Jim," he says like he's suddenly besties. "How you feeling, man?"

Jim really wants nothing more than to scratch the asshole's eyes from his skull, maybe take a shit down his throat for afters, but says, "I'm better." Means it, too, for the most part. "More myself now."

He lets King Shitheap drone on about a timeout or whatever benign-seeming bullshit the fucker has to tell himself in order to sleep tonight. He makes the right noises in the right places and they finally – _finally_ – untie him from that goddamn tree. He thinks he may be developing a hatred for trees, what with how fucking much he wants to turn _that_ one into kindling. He hides it, though. First, there's food he needs to eat, and later, after everyone else has gone to bed, he can finally get back to his holes.

They aren't finished yet, after all.

And they're still important.

He quickly wolfs down some fried fish. He doesn't even know if it's good or not – he can't taste it. He eats too quickly. Luckily, it's dark and no one seems to notice. Otherwise, he's sure those assholes would tie him back to the tree for 'scaring' them. Never mind the fact that he did actual work this morning. Never mind the fact that he was given precisely _one_ drink of water all fucking day. Never mind the fact that none of these fucking do-gooders even asked if he was okay while tied to that damn tree.

He doesn't care. Food is fuel, and he's got miles to go before he sleeps. Promises to keep.

Holes to dig.

Conversation he doesn't pay any attention to floats around him on the campfire smoke. Something about Ol' Shitty RV's wristwatch. Some fucked-up Faulkner the man mangles nearly beyond recognition.

The blonde girl – not the mouse's daughter, the other one, the loudmouth's sister – she says something about being discrete. And then the floodgates open.

The scales fall from his eyes.

Or whatever.

The dream.

 _The motherfucking dream._

Every last detail.

Blood and screaming and death and fire and darkness.

And then it's not playing in his head any more.

He's living it.

The dream flashes merge with what his senses manage to communicate around the ice blocking everything and he can't tell where the dream ends and reality begins.

Or if they were ever separate to begin with.

He fights.

Of course he fights.

He can't _not_.

The ice wants him to.

The holes need him to.

So he fights.

In the dream, at the camp.

It doesn't matter if he's fighting within the dream or in the real world.

The dream _is_ the real world _is_ the dream _is_ real _is_ a dream…

Suddenly, there's silence.

A single long breath, as though the world herself sighed.

And then noise begins to filter back in.

The children are whimpering. Most of the women, too. The loudmouth is louder than ever, sobbing her sister's name.

He knows they need to hear it. Knows, too, that they aren't _ready_ to hear it. But he says it anyway.

It's fate.

"I remember my dream now. Why I dug the holes."

Maybe now they'll let him finish his goddamn job.

It's not like he's got forever, after all. Only a day at the outside.

And, now that the ice is melting, the holes need dug.

* * *

 **A/N2:** This tale is finished, but I'm only planning to post one chapter every couple of days at the most. It will be about four chapters, unless I do a little editing.

I hope y'all like this. It's gonna be kinda a weird one for me, particularly since I almost never write in present-tense. Lemme know what y'all think, alright?


	2. Denial

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'The Walking Dead'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

 **A/N:** This chapter fast-forwards through the remainder of S1 and half of S2. It picks up not long after walker!Sophia is revealed to have been kept in the barn.

* * *

 **The Wrong Place**

 _Chapter Two: Denial_

There is a long, long list of things he doesn't quite get. This was true before the world ground to a slow and stuttering halt. It will probably continue to be true for the rest of his life. However, there are a few things he's managed to put together – contrary to that asshole history teacher's opinion on his intelligence back in tenth grade.

One thing he knows for certain is that Shane sacrificed Otis. He doesn't know the whole story, certainly, but he is abso-fucking-lutely _positive_ Shane sacrificed Otis. How else could he have returned with Rick's gun? The story that Shane had told was ugly, yes, but the gun Rick had given the portly hunter had come back with Shane and those supplies for Carl. So, no, Daryl is sure that Shane concocted the story to stay on Hershel's good side. To make sure the veterinarian would save the boy.

Daryl might hate Shane with a passion, but he can understand why the supplies came back. Why the gun came back. Why Otis _hadn't_.

Liking the asshole or not doesn't matter. It was the right call.

Another thing Daryl knows to the marrow of his bones is that Hershel Greene fucking _knew_ Sophia was in that barn. The old man – and maybe the kid, what's-his-name, Jimmy – put her there. The old man might have sidestepped this fact by laying the blame on Otis, but Daryl knows the score. When, precisely, would _Otis_ have had the time to put Sophia in the barn? Just look at the timeline: Carl was shot by Otis – yes, it was an accident, but the fact still stands. He knows from comments dropped by Rick that the fat man hadn't left on his own while Hershel was working on Carl. Knows that the man didn't leave the house at all until he and Shane headed out after those medical supplies. And since he knows Shane killed him during that run, how is it that a _dead man_ put Sophia in that barn?

Even approaching it from the other side, it doesn't make sense. Sophia took off, those walkers on her tail. Rick found her, then she got spooked by something and took off again. It was just that evening that Carl was shot. Finding her camp in that abandoned house is enough to tell Daryl that she was fine through the end of Otis' life.

These two pieces of information are enough to drive him to move his tent as far away from the rest of them as he can and still feel relatively safe.

Let them think it's guilt that he couldn't find the girl.

Maybe part of it could be attributed to that.

But it's more that he's having a helluva time _trusting_ the Greenes.

And he trusts Shane even less.

If that's even possible.

"Little brother, you got some crazy goin' on here, you know that?" Merle says, hunkering down on the far side of the fire.

Daryl spits in his direction. "Think I don't know that?" he replies, his eyes flickering up to his brother's form and back to the arrow shaft he's smoothing with a piece of sandstone. He sighs. Ever since he'd been thrown by that fucking horse, Merle hadn't left him alone.

"C'm on, little brother – you know I ain't dead. You _know_ it. There's other folk out here. How come you gotta trail 'round after these fuckers? They got blinders on, little brother. They won't let themselves see what's what." Merle stares at him. It's steady, unblinking, and more than a little unnerving.

"An' yer gonna tell me _you_ know what's what?" Daryl scoffs. "Ain't yer call, Merle. Not now. Never _was_."

"C'm on, Daryl," Merle says, his voice suddenly soft. "Why ya gotta be like this? Come an' find me. Come an' sit pretty at the end of the world. We got a place, little brother. Ya know we do. Ev'rythin' else come screechin' to a halt, but you an' me? We got a place in this world."

Daryl snorts through his nose. He's not sure if it's amusement or derision or some combination of the two. He checks the arrow shaft with his fingertips and finds it's as smooth as he can manage. He sits it with the others. "I know, Merle," he hisses across at his brother. "I fuckin' _know_ they got blinders on. 'S why I'm here."

Merle never wore confusion well. It usually made him angry, but not this time. Daryl figures it's because he is, in all reality, speaking to an hallucination brought on by head-trauma. But that doesn't stop the mirage from asking, "What the fuck you on about?"

"I ain't the type ta 'sit pretty', Merle," Daryl says, wrestling to keep himself calm. The last thing he needs is for someone from the group to come up here and find him yelling at nothing. "Never have been. You, on th' other hand. Yer a junkyard dog."

Merle grins a little. "Meanest sumbitch in the land," he agrees, proud of it.

Daryl growls, low in his throat. "Only followed you 'cause no one looks at the wolf hidin' quiet-like in the back when they got a Rottweiler wi' a busted chain 'round its neck growlin' at 'em. If ya weren't such a loudmouth, they'd've shot the damn wolf, just 'cause it's a _wolf_. World's gone wild again, Merle. Ain't no place for a damn dog no more, no matter how mean they is. But a wolf?" He bares his teeth at his brother's image in a parody of a smile.

"That what you think you is, little brother?" Merle laughs. "A _wolf_?"

"You go on an' believe what ya want, Merle," Daryl says, knowing he's right. "You always have. Ain't nothin' nobody can tell ya what'll change yer mind. But you know I'm right. I ain't like you, brother. Never reveled in bar neon an' better livin' through chemistry an' all that shit. You always knew it, too. Knew I was more at home in the real wild places of the world. An' them places is all that's left." He picks up another stick and begins to strip the bark from it with his knife. "'Member that coon we found when I was little?" Daryl asks.

"What's that got ta do wi' anythin'?" Merle's beginning to get angry.

If he were actually there, Daryl would be backing down. Junkyard dog or not, wolf or not, Merle is still his big brother, and there is a natural order to these things. But since he knows it's just a figment of his imagination, Daryl doesn't back down. "I remember how it bit an' scratched you 'til you were gonna shoot the damn thing, swearin' up an' down how it had ta have rabies. 'Til I came up ta it an' it calmed down. 'Member that?"

Merle's anger, always an iffy thing, seems to evaporate. "Damnedest thing I ever did see. Half-grown coon nuzzlin' up ta you like ya was its mama."

"Can't make a pet outta a wild animal," Daryl says. "An' wild things always know their own."

Merle sits in silence for a long moment. The only sounds are the faint scrape of Daryl's knife along his arrow shaft, the low crackle of the fire, and the far-off night noises of crickets. Eventually, he says, "Could be yer right."

Daryl looks back to the mirage of his brother. He doesn't say anything.

Merle is uncomfortable. He always has been when he's had to face that he was wrong about something. Merle says, "Could be yer a wolf. Still don't explain why yer followin' them pansy-ass bleedin'-hearts."

"A wild thing c'n always sense its own," Daryl repeats. "Some of them, yeah, sure. They ain't wild. They ain't even dogs like you. They're still soft an' blind an' sheep. But there's a couple of 'em what got that wild streak. They'll survive, whether I'm here or not, they'll survive while the world weeds out the weak. Even before, the world was hard on lone wolves. They don't survive long wi'out a pack."

"An' yer waitin' for them pussies ta pack-up?" It isn't really a question, though it is tinged with Merle's brand of humor.

Daryl lets himself laugh a little. "Seems like I'm crazy, I know. But I also know if I wait, that's exactly what I'll have."

"An' you think they's gonna what, just follow _you_?"

Daryl rolls his eyes at his brother. "Ain't never said I was an _alpha_ wolf, Merle. Ain't in me ta lead. Can, if I gotta, but I ain't the type what needs it." He fully expects Merle to go off on a rant about how Dixons weren't supposed to be second-bananas to _anyone._

Instead, Merle lets out a thoughtful humming noise. "Maybe we got more in common than I thought, little brother."

Daryl glances up to ask what his brother means, but the mirage has dissipated for the time being. He sighs again. He knows that Merle will be back. But he focuses on the slowly-forming arrow shaft in his hands and allows himself to enjoy the silence while it lasts.

* * *

The next morning, Daryl slowly awakens to the sound of birdsong. If he could somehow justify it, he'd go ahead and fire a round to scare the damn birds away, just so he could go back to sleep for a little longer, but he knows he can't. Not only would it needlessly frighten everyone, but they're perpetually low on bullets these days.

Sighing, he decides that since mama nature won't let him sleep in, he might as well get up. He stretches, relishing the cool air of the morning. He knows the heat will start building up again as the sun rises. He pulls on his olive shirt over the grungy graying wife-beater he would dearly love to toss on the fire, but won't until or unless he can find a replacement.

Despite what he'd told Merle last night, there are _some_ things he liked about the trappings of civilization. Clean clothing and a hot shower are right on top of that list. He sighs again, then unzips his tent. He sits next to his firepit and watches the sky to the east slowly turn rosy pink. He pulls his socks on as the first streaks of sunlight shoot through the thin haze of humidity, then his boots.

He thinks for a moment about going hunting. Dismisses the idea. Not with everything still so fractured. He doesn't much like the group, doesn't like how they seem to have such a hard time seeing the world for what it _is_ , instead of what it _used_ to be. But still… What he'd told Merle remains true: Some of them have enough wild left in them that they'll survive.

And if he doesn't want to die alone, he'd best stick close.

Besides, he hadn't told Merle everything.

Ever since they'd come back that night after finding Merle'd gone, come back to find a herd of fuckin' walkers tearing the camp apart…

Daryl is pretty sure he's been going quietly crazy.

He's been seeing shit he knows for a fact _cannot be there_. Not counting the relatively recent addition of full-on imaginary brothers. No, not _Merle_. Before he'd shown up, Daryl's been seeing other shit.

Shadows is the only way he knows how to describe them, though that doesn't seem quite right.

First one was thick, dark. Hovered around Jim like that cartoon cloud around Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoons. Thought at the time that it was just some weird quirk of the light running up against the knowledge that the mechanic had been bit during the attack.

But then he'd seen a similar cloud begin to gather around Jacqui.

The closer they got to the CDC, the thicker that cloud became.

By the time they'd all had showers and a hot meal, it was thick enough he could barely see the woman behind the shadow. And then there was Jenner, too. A cloud just as dark obscured the scientist from his vision.

When they escaped the fireball that the CDC became, Daryl thought he knew what those shadows had meant. Until the next morning, when he spotted the lightest grey wisps beginning to collect around Sophia.

When he saw that, he refused to believe.

Clung to hope like it was a fuckin' life-preserver.

And then she'd stumbled out of the barn, eyes dead and cloudy.

Daryl knows he can't afford to ignore it any longer.

The shadows, whether they're really there or not… He knows they mean something. He's pretty sure he knows what, too.

They're a countdown of sorts.

And that's just disturbing on more than one level, so Daryl forcibly shoves it to the back of his mind and rummages around in the saddlebags. He comes up with a cigarette, lights it, and smokes it down to the filter, staring at the farmhouse. He wishes for a bottle of good whiskey.

He's seen those faint, grey wisps beginning to gather around Dale.

Around Shane.

Shane's not someone he'll mourn. If he thought he could get away with it, Daryl knows he would happily kill the man himself. Shane is _dangerous_. He spits a fleck of tobacco off his tongue and takes another drag off his smoke. "Hell, I'm pro'ly goin' nuts, I know that," he mutters to himself. "But I ain't a danger ta the rest of them. Shane _is_. So, no, I ain't gonna feel sorry for that fucker."

But Dale…

Daryl tosses the butt into the smoldering remains of his campfire and lights another. He knows he should go easy on his smokes, but sooner than he wants or is even a little bit ready for, it's going to be a moot point. It's not like they're making any more of the damn things, after all, and another couple of months and they will have all gone stale and tasteless.

Yeah, Dale. The old man, Daryl knows, isn't one of the ones he mentioned to his 'brother' the night before. He doesn't have that streak of feral running through him. "Really just a matter of time, really," Daryl mumbles around the cigarette's filter.

Still, though. Dale's an alright guy. A good man. He doesn't deserve what's coming.

He doesn't much care for the little blonde girl. Maggie doesn't bother him as much – she's one of the ones he can feel carries that wild streak. But Beth… She doesn't have it. He can't see one of those clouds around her, either, so he knows he's stuck with her for now. "Too bad that cloud won't shift," he says. He doesn't realize he's speaking out loud, but it doesn't matter. No one is close enough to hear his low rumble. "Dale, at least, is a good shot wi' that rifle of his. Damn girl ain't no use ta nobody."

He doesn't know why everyone is so worried about the girl. She'll live.

At least for now.

* * *

Another day, another early morning.

This time, though, it's not the damn birds that woke him.

It was a fucking nightmare.

A goddamn _dream_.

Tracking that stupid kid Rick'd brought back – the one tied up in the outbuilding. Finding he'd been turned, but hadn't been bit. The barn on fire as they ran. Losing people.

"Fuck," he whispers, trying to get his heart rate back to a normal level.

He's had a million dreams over the course of his life, but none of them had ever felt so _motherfucking real_.

He knows on the same level he knows those shadows he's been seeing _mean something_ that this is another _something_.

 _Am I really going crazy?_ He wants to believe that. It would make sense. _Or is there something more to all this?_

In the world before, the answer would have been easy.

But then the dead rose up and began hunting the living.

Daryl doesn't know _what_ to think anymore. The line between possible and impossible has been eternally erased, he thinks, though it's not as solidly worded in his mind – more a series of vague impressions that don't linger overlong.

They still disturb him, though.

He pushes it away. Buries it. Lets the bitterness he carries about not being able to find Sophia hide it from himself. Lets himself be distracted for a while by Dale's mission to save the life of the kid in the outbuilding. Lets the worst aspects of himself have free rein. Maybe if he's enough of an asshole, no one will notice how he's losing his mind.

* * *

And then the dream actually _happens_.

Exactly as he saw it.

"I'm not crazy," he says, his voice quiet as everyone sleeps around him. He's supposed to be on watch, and he _is_ trying to keep an ear out for the signature shuffling shamble of walkers. "I'm not crazy," he repeats, shifting a little atop the stone wall. He keeps his voice low, barely a whisper of breath through his teeth. He doesn't need – nor does he want – anyone else to hear him.

It would require explanations he isn't sure he has the vocabulary to express.

There's a lot of shit in the world he doesn't understand. There was a lot before the world of modern man halted in its tracks. There's still shit he simply doesn't _get_. He realizes that it will likely always be that way. But he _does_ understand the crap he's seen isn't the sort of thing that someone else would understand. He understands that if the group sees him as crazy, they might begin to think he's dangerous. He isn't about to wind up like Shane – so he promises himself to keep it under wraps.

It helps that he's not seen the hallucination of Merle since that time they'd chatted by his campfire. As long as that mirage of his brother stays away, he thinks it won't be too hard.

 _That dream,_ he thinks, rummaging in his pocket to see if he has any cigarettes left. _It doesn't necessarily mean something. Gettin' overrun… Was bound ta happen sooner or later._ He's never really remembered his dreams before. This small detail allows him to convince himself that the dream only _resembled_ what went down.

By the time the sun's about ready to break over the horizon, Daryl's convinced himself that he was misremembering what he'd dreamt. He's also managed to convince himself that those times he's seen his brother were solely the result of head-trauma. An atypical reaction to a concussion – nothing more.

The shadows… _Hell, that's just imagination._ He hears T-Dog and Glenn exchange quiet good mornings below and behind him. Since no one with them currently sport those weird clouds, Daryl almost manages to force himself to believe he'd not seen them.

His denial is comforting.

* * *

 **A/N2:** This was hella-fun to write. I hope y'all like what I'm doing here, even if it is a bit weird.


	3. Acceptance

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by the writers, producers, et al of the television show 'The Walking Dead'. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, internet persona, or other being, living or dead, is completely coincidental and unintentional unless otherwise noted.

 **A/N:** Sorry it took so long to get this part out, but RL has been a bitch of a fuck lately.

* * *

 **The Wrong Place**

 _Chapter Three: Acceptance_

There's a storm coming. Lori has said as much; she's always been right, too, always smelling the ozone in the air that comes on the wind before a big storm. It earns her a rare glance of respect from Daryl as he confirms that she is most likely right. Rick supposes that's the reason his bullet-scar _aches_. Normally, the coming storm wouldn't be much of an issue, but they've been turned back from the main roads by large herds the past week; the dead forcing them to wander in ever-dizzying circles along gravel tracks and logging roads.

There hasn't been much in the way of shelter lately. Three nights earlier, they camped out in a ramshackle old cabin that had enough patches of roof missing that Rick could easily look up and spot whole constellations through the gaps. Out back of beyond, even if it is still _Georgia_ and not _Tibet_ – and hell if Rick knows where that particular thought came from – the houses are few and far between. It's been four days since they last located a cache of canned food. A box of cheap Dollar Tree soups that had been found in the bed of an abandoned Ford 4x4, along with ten or twelve six-packs of bottled water. That same truck had likewise provided a hatchet, some matches, and a couple of ratty old blankets that smelt of wood smoke and faintly of fishing bait.

Daryl's crossbow has been proving its worth in keeping them fed. Squirrels for the most part, with a wild turkey the night before. He'd had a clear shot at a couple of rabbits earlier today, but just threw a pinecone at them, startling them into bolting for their warren. When Rick had asked why Daryl hadn't shot them, Daryl had shrugged and said, "Not 'less we get a hard frost. Don' think Herschel's got the stuff ta treat rabbit-fever." Rick wasn't too sure he understood the reasoning, but let it go. Daryl had yet to steer them wrong when it came to wild food – he'd even managed to locate a patch of late-season watercress the day before and it had almost felt like Christmas, having fresh veggies with that bulky tom turkey.

Glancing up at the sky, Rick notices that the cloud-cover has thickened from the silvery tone that had been dogging them since morning to more of a dark blue-grey. A distant flicker lights up a cluster of clouds and he sighs to himself. His eyes flicker to the gas gauge of the Suburban. It hasn't changed from the last time he'd checked it… a full ten seconds earlier. It's still hovering barely a hairsbreadth above the E.

"Gonna need to find a place to camp for tonight," he says, Lori startling a little from where she's been staring out the passenger window.

Before she can say anything, the brake lights of Daryl's motorcycle flash on and Rick watches as the bike swerves off the gravel track and into a wide gravel-and-dust-and-mud clearing to the right of the road. Rick dutifully follows, and the green Hyundai likewise follows. They park in a tight semicircle.

Rick stretches his back, then climbs out of the Suburban. Carol has already joined Maggie and Lori in getting their campsite readied. Daryl is standing next to his bike, peering into the tree line. "Good idea," Rick says, knowing that their hunter is contemplating another trek for fresh food. He's not sure how he knows – and it doesn't even dawn on him to question the source of his certainty.

Daryl shrugs, then says, "Figure we're gonna need ta backtrack again."

"Any reason why?"

"We stopped fer lunch an' me an' Glenn were lookin' at them maps. 'Less we wanna get lost in timber country – an' ain't one of us what's got a chainsaw – then we're gonna hafta swing south again. Could be that herd we passed's moved on."

Rick let out an agreeing sort of humming noise. "Need gas. Food."

"Yeah," Daryl agrees, still peering at the timber line. "Been out this way afore. Last time Merle was in prison, spent me about a month in a cabin not too far from here."

"Yeah?" Rick asks, interested.

"Cabin's gone now, though – guy who owned it sold it off. Buyer had it tore down an' took it off ta somewhere out west." He clears his throat and spits in the dust at his feet. "Still, though. Area's crawlin' wi' game. Or it used ta be. Deer, squirrel, an' birds, mostly, but I got me a boar that month I lived out here."

"There any towns nearby?"

Daryl shrugs. "Coupla li'l ones. Biggest wa'n't more'n a hunnert folk back then."

"Ya think there's any chance we'll find some supplies?"

"Could do," Daryl hedges. "Huntin's a way o'life out here. Might could find shotgun or rifle stuff."

Rick lets out a thoughtful hum. "How far to this town?"

"Ten miles, mayhap a shade less," Daryl replies, shifting his attention to the sky. A fork of lightning jumps from one cloud to another, followed by a loud clap of thunder. "Will wanna head out ASAP," Daryl's voice is almost whisper-quiet.

Rick nods, but Daryl looks at him and repeats in his normal tone, "Will wanna head out ASAP. Dunno 'bout you, but I don' wanna be caught in a tent t'night."

Looking up at the worsening storm, Rick agrees with the sentiment. "Don't think you're gonna wanna hunt in this, neither."

Daryl lets out an amused snort. "Hunted in worse," he says, but nods anyway. "We got enough food fer t'night. This clears out by mornin' an' I'll see what I c'n find then."

With that, Rick walks over to the women and speaks to them in low tones while Daryl remounts his motorcycle. Fifteen minutes later, they're back on the road. Another fifteen minutes and they're coasting into a deserted little hamlet that consists of four or five streets running parallel to the state highway, with an additional six or seven streets crossing them at regular intervals. The Suburban coughs and literally coasts the last few meters into the town's only service station. Rick lets out a rueful chuckle that earns him a scathing glare from Lori. He shrugs a little.

By the time he climbs out from behind the wheel, Daryl is already examining the archaic-looking pump. Without looking away from it, Daryl gestures to the building, which sports a large sign proclaiming it to be the oldest filling station in the state of Georgia, in continuous operation since 1932, with a secondary claim to fame of being the only one that still used 'visible pumps'. Rick returns his attention to Daryl, who's now physically pumping a long handle. Clear yellow fluid spews out of a pipe in the top of the pump, rapidly filling a glass chamber that's a little smaller than a five-gallon bucket. Motioning to Glenn to give him a hand, he manages to push the Suburban the last few feet needed to be in reach of the pump's hose.

It takes almost six fills of the pump's glass chamber to fill the Suburban. Additional fills top off the Hyundai, Daryl's bike, and every gas can they have. They have to pause twice in doing this, both times to tend to solitary walkers that show, drawn by the minimal noise they've been making.

The promised rain begins innocently enough – just a few scattered splashes – as they finish up. By the time they've migrated into the town's only other visible business, a Dollar General catty-corner to the gas station, it's coming down hard and fast and thick enough they can't see across the parking lot. The wind picks up and gusts a bit through the glass door they'd shattered to gain access to the store.

They clear the store quickly. No walkers are hiding inside, so they move a heavy display stand in front of the broken door. Some additional muscle clears the seasonal displays of water balloons and pool noodles and charcoal and lighter fluid from the otherwise open space near the registers. The store seems to have been overlooked during the panic and chaos leading up to the end of the world, and is far enough off the beaten track to have not yet been picked over by other survivors, so the group fragments and begins to meander their way through the store's offerings.

Herschel heads for the small selection of first-aid and over-the-counter medications, intent on refilling his kit. Maggie and Beth head to the back corner of the store and return in short order, pushing a pair of carts mounded with cheap foam mattress toppers, pillows, blankets, and towels. Carl puts a pair of batteries into an off-brand electric lantern, then leans against the wall to color in a fuzzy poster depicting Superman in mid-flight. A grinning Glenn returns to the front of the store with a cart piled with nothing but Cottonelle toilet paper – it earns him a few scattered chuckles.

Rick isn't sure where Daryl disappeared off to, but he busies himself by collecting cheap batteries – the ones he never bothered wasting money on before, because they never lasted long enough to be worth the bother. _Can't afford to be picky any more, though_ , he considers, shoving card after card of Heavy Duty AAs into a canvas shopping bag he'd snagged from near the register.

He looks up from his task when he hears Daryl's gruff whisper of, "Huh, won't be a cold camp after all."

Rick looks around, expecting the man to be just a few feet away, but doesn't see him. In fact, he finds their resident hunter almost on the other side of the store, climbing down a restocking ladder, with a mid-sized box tucked under one arm. The box displays a small charcoal grill, the kind Rick knew from innumerable baseball and softball games, the sort his dad had always called a 'tailgate grill'. He trades a bright smile with Daryl, giving the man a friendly clasp to the shoulder. "Good work," he says, then ambles into the grocery section. _Weird I could hear him from so far,_ he thinks as he checks over the selection of various shelf-stable foods on offer, ignoring the stench of rot coming from the short line of coolers at the far end. He doesn't pursue the thought any farther, however; he simply chalks it up to a quirk of acoustics and leaves it at that.

He finds Lori and T-Dog and Carol all picking through the limited selection of clothing available. He tells them they'll have something hot to eat that night, despite their location and the raging storm outside. They all seem happy enough about that, so he leaves them to their task.

Since the store didn't carry much in the way of bottled water, they all decide to save the water and take it with them when they leave. Instead, most of the adults opt to have wine or expired beer with their dinner of Hormel canned chili. Carl opts for an entire two-liter of Sprite. Herschel settles back with a classic Coke. Lori finds a jug of Clemato juice and guzzles it like it's the best thing ever invented. Daryl surprises everyone in his choice of a bottle of strawberry-banana V8 Fusion. At their confused stare, he becomes defensive. "What?" he growls.

"No beer?" Maggie asks, not intimidated in the slightest.

He shrugs. "Hate skunky beer," he says, then pokes the coals in the grill. Rick smiles at that, but clearly hears the hunter continue sotto-voice, "Ne'er really liked beer ta begin wi'. Hell, I don' much care for booze in general, but if I gotta drink, I'd rather have me some Jack Daniels or Johnny Walker."

It makes Rick's blood run cold.

He is looking right at the hunter, and regardless of what he can hear, he can _see_ – even in the dim light of the coals and Carl's lantern – that Daryl's not moving his mouth.

"Besides," Rick hears. "I miss bananas. I _like_ bananas. An' it ain't like they're gonna be all that easy ta come by from here on out."

"…me another, wouldja?" Rick's attention is dragged back to T-Dog. It takes him a moment to realize T-Dog's motioning to the open case of Bud Light at his elbow. He tosses the big guy another bottle and tries to ignore what he's seen. What he's _heard_.

* * *

Over the course of the following weeks, Rick alternately thinks he's losing his mind or that he's simply imagining all the crap he keeps thinking he's hearing. In other moments, he idly wonders why it's only Daryl's voice he keeps hearing.

Time grinds onward, not paying an iota of attention to Rick's inner turmoil, with the days growing shorter and colder, the nights positively frigid. Lori's belly grows rounder and larger with each passing week. They all burn away what little leftover fat they had, and in most cases, more than they can afford to lose.

Their night at that Dollar General was their last of easy pickings – as Daryl had predicted, the forested nature of the area turned them back in a southerly direction. Back towards major population centers.

Glenn's uncanny knack for finding hidden loot becomes as invaluable as Daryl's crossbow to the group. Never does the kid fail in bringing back _something_ useful, be it batteries, bullets, or food. Once, he even manages to locate a couple of suppressors. One fits perfectly on the pistol Carl carries, the other needs a little tweaking before it matches the bore of Maggie's gun.

Day by day, they stubbornly march forward. Eventually, the days slowly began to grow longer once again. Some of the winter chill begins to fade. Rick feels more pressure than ever before – he has to find somewhere marginally safe for his people. Somewhere Lori's time-bomb can safely be delivered.

And then he hears that gravelly whisper of Daryl's one grey morning. _Think the state pen's around here somewhere. Yeah,_ the thought takes on a satisfactory note. _It is. Always come in from t'other side afore. But it's 'bout two, maybe three miles off east o'here._

It lights a bit of inspiration in Rick. Crazy or not, imagination or not, at that precise moment, all he feels is grateful he heard what he did. Though prisons were built to keep people in, all those same defenses surely _had_ to work to keep walkers out, right?

They clear the yard with no problems.

It's the first good night's sleep Rick's had since the farm.

He doesn't care any more if he's going crazy or not.

Whatever it was that let him hear what he did – imaginary or not – it brought them here.

A safe place.

* * *

 **A/N2:** Again, apologies for the delay. Free, truck-accessible wi-fi is getting rarer than hens' teeth these days.


End file.
